Change of Plan
by Max Alleyne
Summary: "See that Spartacus is still able to please a woman.  Be sure that he has the stamina to please a proper Roman woman." Lucretia's order set her blood to boiling.  She didn't bother with a response before leaving to do as commanded. OC.
1. Bought and Sold

**Author's Note: So, I recently realized that I had gone far too long without my strong, bloody violence and graphic adult content and rediscovered my love of Spartacus. This is my first foray into the fandom, so please let me know what you think is working, what isn't working, etc. This thing does feature and OC; let me know if you think she's too Mary Sue-ish. I try my best to give you breadcrumbs to fully fleshed characters, but if it isn't working, let me know. Please review and please be gentle!**

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><p>The sun was bright—too bright—beaming down on her as she stood in the crowded, dusty market place. The heat was stifling and it was an effort to keep breathing, each breath bringing hot air that she could have sworn was scorching her lungs. Dust and grime were caked on her body, though her clothes were still relatively clean, the result of the slave traders forcing her out of her gear and into a dress so that she would be more presentable when taken to market. Her sturdy, thick-soled sandals had been replaced with cheap, thin-soled ones that were held on with the thinnest of strings.<p>

A tall, brutish man—the trader that she had been given to—paced in front of the line where she stood, threatening punishment if they misbehaved. After having seen all the things she had, however, his speech was of no consequence.

"If you so much as breathe in a way that I find unpleasing, I will flay you alive and make your skin into a fine belt. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," the group of them murmured, none of them daring to raise their heads. This was apparently exactly what the trader wanted; he lead them onto the wooden stage without any further threatening or swearing.

She stood there, feeling the eyes on her, and she wondered if this was what it was like to the meat hanging in the storehouses. Clenching her teeth and balling her hands into fists, she tried to push the feeling to the back of her mind, telling herself that it didn't matter what some Roman thought of her. It wasn't true, of course—if she weren't bought, she knew that she would end up being sold for an embarrassingly low price to a whorehouse—but it was a comforting thought nonetheless.

Despite her gut telling her otherwise, she stopped staring at the wooden planking of the stage and raised her head to look out into the crowd. There must have been hundreds of people gathered in the market to watch. The only ones that she worried about were the well-dressed men that were eyeing them; they were the men who had come to make purchases.

"100 denari for the lot of them," one of the men says. He's talking about the group of men up for auction at the moment. The crowd gasps, telling her that this is a considerable sum of money to have paid for them, but the man does it without hesitation. They're sold immediately, and then it's her group up for bid.

One by one, they're sold, until she's the only one left standing on the stage. She knows why they won't buy her: her skin is too fair, and so now burnt, and she reminds them all a bit too much of themselves—in looks, anyway. Disappointment and disgust burn in the pit of her stomach, but she keeps her head held high, an action that she will more than likely pay for later.

"What is this, Marcus? She goes unsold?"

The voice is familiar—that of the man who had spent 100 denari on people that probably weren't worth it. Her escort—her master, though to think of him that way made her feel nauseous—stopped and turned to face the man.

"So it would seem, Batiatus. Interested in making an offer?"

The man—Batiatus—inspected her, touching her hair and skin and looking at her teeth before speaking again. "How much would she go for at the whorehouse?"

"30 denari," Marcus answers.

"30? That's unlikely, friend. Not with skin like that. I'll give you ten."

"Done."

And with that, she was sent to a new house, a new master, in a place too far from home. She was the only woman amongst the group of men, though she didn't hear the catcalls she had expected, perhaps because they too were bought slaves. Maybe they held their tongues out of fear of Batiatus. Why they did so, she had no idea, but she was grateful for the silence.

That silence did not continue when they arrived at Batiatus's home—his ludus. She had heard of such places before, places where slaves trained to fight each other to death in an arena for the pleasure of the spectators, but she had always believed them to be myths. After all, who could be so barbaric? When she took a life, it wasn't for sport or on a whim, but out of necessity in times of war.

"You will serve in the house," Batiatus told her, as the walked through the gates and into a dusty courtyard filled with nearly naked men fighting on another with wooden practice swords and shields. He gestured to the men behind him. "These will go to training for the arena."

She nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak. Now she was hearing the catcalls that she hadn't gotten earlier; she felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but she was certain that she was too sunburned for anyone but herself to notice. Though she said nothing, she did not bow her head to stare at her feet, either. Instead, she kept her head up and stared around at the men who were calling at her, studying their faces and committing them to memory. There were only a few that weren't calling after her, and she would be sure to remember those, too.

"Doctore, new men for you," Batiatus said to the tall, dark-skinned man who approached them.

"A woman, Dominus?"

"You think me mad? No, she will be in the house."

As Batiatus led her into the house, she made sure to pay attention to each passage and corridor that she walked; she tried to remember where each gate was located, but it would take her several trips before she could remember it all. It was just too much new information that she was trying to force into her mind, and it wouldn't all stay.

"Lucreita!"

"Yes?" a fiery-haired woman answered as they walked into a giant room with shallow pools in the center. Batiatus crossed the room to where the woman was lying draped over a cushioned chair in what appeared to be a most uncomfortable fashion and kissed her. "What is this?"

"Another for the house. With all the entertaining you have been doing recently, I thought you might like another."

Lucretia smiled broadly and stood to study her new acquisition. She did not appear to be overly impressed, though she wasn't disgusted, either.

"She is fair skinned for a slave. Wherever did she come from?"

"Rumor has it, she's one of the more northern Celtic tribes. The burns should heal within the week."

"I should hope so. Leave us, husband. I would have some time alone with her." Batiatus obliged his wife and left them alone. Without another word, Lucretia led her new slave into a room with yet another pool.

"Disrobe," Lucretia ordered. The slave hesitated, but eventually slipped her dress from off her shoulders, letting it puddle on the ground at her feet. Lucretia's eyes widened as she took in the sight of scars and bruises lacing up and down the younger woman's thighs. There were further marks on her arms and one lone scar running from her right shoulder to the opposite hip. It was a pale white scar that stood out against the whiter skin of her body.

"You are scarred."

"Yes."

"Yes, Domina. You will address me as Domina."

"Yes, Domina," she whispered, fighting the humiliation of calling another woman—one that she was certain she could best—her mistress.

"What is your name?" Lucretia asked quietly.

"They call me Aithne," she answered after a long pause.

"Aithne? What a strange name. Whatever does it mean?"

"Fire, Domina."

"For your hair, I imagine?" the lady of the house said, gesturing to the other woman's bright red hair.

"Yes, Domina."

"Well, you're filthy and you reek. I will not have slaves that reek serving in my house. Clean yourself up and I will see that you get a new dress. Then Naevia will show you to your duties."

"Yes, Domina." That was all that Aithne could bring herself to say. Others may have thanked their masters for clean clothes, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Instead, she only agreed and set to the task of scrubbing the grime of several days from her skin and hair. Since her travels had started so many months ago

A young woman with caramel colored skin and dark hair brought her a clean dress and new sandals, which Aithne quickly stepped into after finishing her bath. She could tell by the look on the other woman's face that she was taken aback by her the scars on her body; at home, no one would have been surprised, not in the slightest.

"I am Naevia. I will be showing you to your duties. Mostly, you will attend the Domina—get her wine, draw her bath, fetch things for her. It is best not to speak unless you are spoken to first." Aithne didn't answer. "I see you should have no trouble with that, then. I will show you the villa."

And so for the next several hours, Aithne followed Naevia around the villa, learning where she would fetch food, how to draw a bath and what the Domina's preferences for. She learned how to dye a wig—knowledge she had never had need of before—and how to help someone into a dress. It was most instructive, mostly useless outside the walls of the ludus, and most tedious.

"The wine is kept below, in the holds at the base of the stairs," Naevia explained, guiding Aithne down the stairs, back to where the gladiators were beginning to retire for the night. It didn't stop the catcalls.

"Will it be like this every time we have to come down here?" Aithne asked.

"More often than not. If they're busy training, they pay us no notice. But they…they do not have female company very often, so they…" Naevia shrugged helplessly, at a loss for any way to put it delicately. Aithne just nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. There had been men where she came from as well.

"The ones that do not call…who are they?"

Naevia pointed to a tall, broad-shouldered man with cloth wrapped around his chest. "That is Crixus, the undefeated Gaul. The fair-haired one with the curls is Varros; he has a wife and son outside these walls. And the other, that's the bringer of rain. That's Spartacus."

"The bringer of rain?"

"We were in a drought; there had been no rain and so a sacrifice was made to the gods in the arena. Crixus and Spartacus against Theokoles, a man who had never been bested. Spartacus killed Theokoles, the heavens opened and rain fell."

Aithne studied the men who weren't studying them, only to realize that one of them was. Crixus was staring rather intently at them; no, not at them, she realized, but at Naevia.

"Crixus favors you," Aithne whispered to her companion. Immediately, Naevia's face paled.

"You mustn't speak of such things," Naevia snapped, though the desperate edge in her voice confirmed that not only was Aithne correct, but that Crixus's feelings were returned.

"It is our job to be seen and not heard, is it not?" Aithne answered lightly, though her tone told Naevia that she had nothing to fear.

Naevia smiled. "Come, let us get this wine back to Domina and then I'll show you to your bed. The hour is late."

But upon delivery of the wine, Lucretia had other plans for them. They followed her, Batiatus, and a younger, blonde woman—Illithyia, they called her—out onto the balcony. In the courtyard below, the newly purchased slaves were standing at attention, waiting for Batiatus's words. Above them, Illithyia seemed completely fascinated, particularly when offered the prospect of having a gladiator of her own. Aithne forced her gaze to remain steady when the men were ordered to remove their scant clothing and stood bare in the square.

Illithyia quickly chose the man who was the most well endowed without so much as a blush. Aithne said a silent prayer of gratitude for her burnt skin, which was hiding her blush for the second time that day. Though, after witnessing Illithyia's choice, it would seem that there was no further need of their services and they were sent to bed.

Despite the late hour, Aithne did not sleep; she lay on the pallet that passed for a bed with a thin, coarse blanket for warmth. Still, it was a welcome change from the unsanitary conditions that she had faced on the road as they were transported. The place was still too unfamiliar for her to go to sleep; she liked knowing every detail of the place she was living, and she didn't yet. So instead of sleeping, she lie in her bed and stared at the ceiling, pretending not to notice when Naevia slipped away or the chorus of moaning and groaning from the bedroom that Batiatus and his wife shared.

When the sun rose in the morning, she was already awake—out of the bed and arranging extravagant trays of fruit on a table for Lucretia's breakfast. After her meager breakfast—some kind of strange soup that did not appear fit for animal consumption, never mind human—it took all of her willpower and discipline not to sneak a grape, but she had heard horror stories of slaves losing their hands—or their lives—over such an act.

She spent the first few weeks in her new surroundings this way—sleeping very little and eating what felt like much less—and wondering when the gods were going to have mercy on her and strike her down. Her blessing never came and so she spent day after day in the same dreary routine.

This morning, Domina requested wine with breakfast, and so Aithne went to fetch it. Downstairs, the gladiators were already training in the courtyard, leaving her walk blessedly free of taunts and lewd remarks. She tiptoed through the house, trying her best not to disturb those who might still be abed; just as she neared the balcony where the pair were watching the morning training, she took pause at the conversation going on outside.

"Did you look at what you were purchasing, Quintus?" Lucretia was asking. "She is scarred under that long dress, and she isn't broken."

"What matter is it if she has scars? She can serve you well, can she not?" the lanista answered. "And Naevia is not broken."

"Naevia is the exception. I am simply trying to ensure that we do not have a slave that is going to try to step out of line. Though, she does not speak much, which I can say is a point in her favor."

"If things do not fare well with her, I shall see that she makes it to her original destination," Batiatus assured.

"Your wine, Domina," Aithne said, stepping through the curtains onto the balcony as though she had never stopped to listen.

Lucretia accepted the wine without thanks and drank deeply. "Illithyia will need tending this morning, and I've several women coming from Rome. See that they have everything they need. Do not be overbearing, but ensure that they enjoy themselves."

The assignment turned out to be surprisingly simple; the women—Licinia, Caecillia, and Aemilia—were all easily entertained with wine and talk amongst themselves, particularly once the gladiator men were brought in for their inspection. Illithyia and Lucretia spoke of the gladiators as gods, as men who would change the world, and the others were hanging on their every word. Aithne could practically see the fantasies already forming in their minds.

When Licinia lingered for a day after the others had left, Lucretia sent the slaves—and how the name stung on her tongue—away. Aithne took Naevia by the arm, eager to know what was going on, if only to have her suspicions confirmed.

"What is it that the Domina would discuss with her?" Aithne asked.

"I cannot be sure—"

"But if you were to guess, you would say…"

"I imagine that Licinia is arranging to spend some time with a certain gladiator. Did you see the way she was eyeing Spartacus?" Naevia answered quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

In fact, Aithne had noticed it. She had encountered blind men in the streets who probably would have noticed the way that she was undressing him with her eyes, or the way that she longingly ran her hands over his body. Aithne tried to take the unpleasant memories of hands on her own body in such a way and push them to the back of her mind, to a place where they couldn't harm her.

"I did. You imagine that she would try to have him?"

"For one night, at least."

Their suspicions were further confirmed by Lucretia later in the evening when she gave Aithne the first of the orders that truly caused her any pain. The humiliation of housework was one thing, being used as a whore was another.

"Aithne," Lucretia called from where she was lying in bed with her husband. "Have you lain with a man before."

"Yes, Domina," she answered quietly, her eyes fixed on the wall.

"Perhaps I should ask differently. Have you ever fucked a man before? I mean ridden him until his knees buckled and his toes curled?"

"Yes, Domina," she answered again, though this time she had to force the words past her lips. It didn't matter if she had been with a man or not. Lucretia had gotten the idea into her head that Aithne was going to bed Spartacus and there was no talking her out of it. Any attempt would only get her punished before she was forced into completing the task.

"See that Spartacus is still able to please a woman. Be sure that he has the stamina to please a proper Roman woman."

Aithne clenched her jaw and knew that the Domina could see the anger on her face, but she found that she did not care. Clutching her dress more tightly around herself, she walked with purpose from the room and headed for Spartacus's cell.


	2. Pleasing and Desire

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed! It made my day and my week (which has been too busy to post this until now). I hope that you enjoy it. As always, feedback is completely welcome so that I know what I need to work on for the next chapter. Please review! (Reviews would make me smile, which I need considering that my favorite football team just lost horribly and heartbreakingly and I'm trying to recover).**

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><p>Though she knew that few people knew of her orders from Lucretia, she felt the gaze of each person she passed much more intensely, as if they could see the very thoughts in her head. Prior to this moment, she had always been aware that her dress was of the thinnest cloth, barely held to cover her body with the loosest of stitches, but now it was insubstantial. She pulled the fabric closer to her body, only to have it feel overly confining and suffocating.<p>

Her steps were light and very nearly soundless as she made her way through the villa to the ludus. She knew that the judgmental gazes were of her own imagining—until she reached the base of the staircase leading to the ludus. The guard stopped her at the gate, a lewd smile on his face and a case of hungry, wandering eyes. Aithne held her head high, trusting the shadows to hide any doubt in her expression.

Fear and uncertainty were the two emotions that would get her killed if they were discovered, she knew. Anger was expected and, she had learned in the time since her capture, welcome. They wanted to se the anger and hatred in her eyes so that they could take pleasure in watching it fade away and be replaced with listlessness and despair. She would give them neither.

"Domina sends me," she said, her voice more steady than she had expected it to be. "I am to see Spartacus."

"The Thracian?" This time when the guard smiled, she could not read his intent. It was no longer the lewd, knowing smile that he had worn when she first arrived. Instead it was something different, perhaps worse than the crudeness he had shown when she first arrived.

"Is there more than one Spartacus in this ludus?" she asked, her voice filled with a mockery of innocence that went unnoticed by the guard.

The guard did not say more, but instead lead her through a maze of stone-walled corridors; after the first few turns, she was unable to keep track of the way she had came and a familiar sense of panic began to rise in her chest. Not at the thought of spending the night in the chamber of a man she knew only by sight did she panic, but rather at the idea of being lost in a maze that she would be unable to escape if necessity called for her to do so.

"His cell lies empty," Aithne said quietly, confusion in her voice.

"He will return shortly," the guard answered before leaving her alone in the shadows of the cell. It was four stone walls and a raised stone slab for a bed. A blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the bed; aside from that, the room was bare. She sat on the floor to await his return as the warmth of the day faded and the chill of night crept into the room and seeped into her bones. She longed to take the blanket around her and revel in the warmth she knew she would find there, but she resisted the urge to do so.

As seductions went, she knew that this was the wrong manner in which to begin it. She was still fully clothed—shoes and all—but she could not bring herself to remove anything, not with the chill. The climes had been cooler at home, but she had also worn more substantial clothing there. Her shoes were still on, laced tightly onto her feet and up her calves. Knowing that they would be difficult to remove, she slipped out of them quickly and set them against the wall.

Several moments later, Aithne could hear footsteps coming down the corridor and she pulled herself up a little straighter, determined to meet the man she had heard so much talk of with some semblance of dignity. When he entered the cell, he stopped for just a moment and stared at her, taken aback and unsure of her purpose. He became more sure of it when she rose and approached him, blowing out the wall sconce as she reached for the knot holding her dress in place.

"You have the wrong cell," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. To a lesser woman, it would have held no room for argument.

"My eyes must deceive me then, for you appear very much in his likeness. Are you not Spartacus?"

"I am."

"Then I am indeed in the correct cell. I am Aithne."

"And what end brings you here?" he asked again. She did not answer, but instead seemed fixated on the wall just beyond his shoulder, her jaw clenched tight. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back into the rough stone wall. It was uncomfortable, but not painfully so; not for her. Still, she bit her tongue until she knew what he wanted of her. Obviously, it was not sex.

"Give your true purpose," he ordered. Still, she did not answer. "Find your tongue." He pushed her with more force against the wall.

"Domina sent me," Aithne whispered. Upon her response, his grip relaxed to the slightest degree and she quickly slipped out of his grasp. His eyes widened in surprise at her speed; wariness hardened his expression as he studied her. Aithne perched on the edge of his bed, taking no care to gracefully pose her body. "I have no silver tongue, so I shall be frank. She fears you have been too long without a woman, that you will not be able to withhold your seed long enough to please the Roman woman."

"The thought offends me."

"Find a man it would not offend and Badb would shed tears, a task equally impossible." Her voice was light and playful—far more playful than she felt. Confusion crossed his face at her words.

"Badb? I know not of whom you speak."

She sighed wistfully. "I forget that the heathen Romans call their gods by different names. Badb takes her form as the hooded crow that walks the battlefields, turning the tides to those she favors. Battlefields are her garden."

"Like Minerva."

"I suppose. I have not yet learned the Roman gods for I do not intend worship of them."

"Would the goddess approve your actions?" he questioned, nodding to her surroundings. She knew he referred to the task Lucretia had set her to. Aithne's expression darkened at his words and he did not speak them again.

She could not bring herself to tell him that she would rather see a thousand grisly wounds and hundreds of severed heads before she would scrub another floor or fetch another jar of wine. The words burned in her throat but she swallowed them down, keeping them deep inside her. No fear or uncertainty, not even to this man, the one who had not catcalled at her.

"It has been my experience that man does not always take into account the approval of the gods," she finally answered quietly, her jaw tight. Tension was clear in every line of her body.

"An experience shared by many."

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but there was something else there. She studied his face, looking to find the answers written there, but she could not find them. It occurred to her to look again, to push harder for answers, but it would require energy that she did not have. Perhaps later, if there was time, she would find out what he meant. Suddenly, she found herself exhausted.

"You do not desire me. Is there nothing you do desire?" she asked, hoping that he would desire nothing but solitude. He did not disappoint her.

"I desire only sleep…and the absence of dreams."

"A wish shared by many. Sleep well, Spartacus," she said as way of farewell before slipping out of his quarters. She walked quietly through the house to her quarters, her feet making only the lightest noise on the cold floor. The villa was warmer than the ludus had been, but she was still grateful for the warmth of her thin blanket. She pulled it over her body and drifted into sleep, ignoring the knowing looks of the other slaves who were still awake and the guards standing at the door.

Despite her late night, she was still awake come dawn doing the same work that had been eating away at her since her first day in the House of Batiatus. While she knew that some of the accusatory looks she had felt the night before were of her own imagining, they were not now. Other slaves stared at her as she went about her routine, their faces unpleasant. Why anyone would be jealous of being used like a whore, Aithne was unsure.

She was on her hands and knees, forcing herself to focus on scrubbing the floor and trying not to think of how many slaves had done this before her. It was perhaps her least favorite task that she had been given—too mindless for her to lose herself in her work, which meant that there was more than ample time for her to let her mind wander to all the places that she did not want for it to wander. Back home, which was so vastly different from where she was now—all green and lush and beautiful, not dry and dusty and covered with a fine layer of dust.

Outside, she could see the gladiators training in the courtyard, covered in the same dust that she was scrubbing off the floor. The floors near the balcony were always the worst because the doors were forever open and letting in the dust. It wasn't the dust that bothered her; it was the proximity to violence and the constant reminder that she wasn't the one with a sword in her hand.

Aithne studied the courtyard, watching the men hacking at each other with wood instead of the proper steel. Crixus was vastly overmatched for the poor whelp that he had been partnered with, and she could already see the bruises forming on the boy's back. She could also see Spartacus and Varro sparring, smiles on their faces as they beat wood against wood. They looked almost happy, despite the fact that Varro was not blocking his flank particularly well and Spartacus was continually hitting him there. She envied them.

The Roman woman would be coming within the week, and preparations were already fully underway. When she finished with the floors, she removed all the gauzy drapes and took them to be laundered, saying a quiet prayer of thanks to her gods that it was not a task she had to do herself. The villa was bustling with activity when she returned, moreso than when she had left.

"Why such excitement?" she asked Naevia as she passed her.

"Licinia arrives on the morrow. Domina would have everything be perfect for her arrival."

Aithne nodded and said nothing, biting her tongue to prevent from saying anything that would cause her trouble. Naevia seemed kind, but she was also the Domina's personal slave, and she could not be sure precisely of where her loyalties lie. She had seen slaves attempt to kill their masters—and most of them were rewarded for their troubles with a swift, gruesome death designed to strike fear into the hearts of any who would consider trying once more. She had also seen slaves kill for their masters, and not in the way that the gladiators did in the arena; some slaves were underhanded and sly and occasionally wiser than their masters. Though she wished to think Naevia loyal to her, she could not be sure and thus held her opinions to herself.

"We shall see it so," she answered instead.

She set to work preparing the chamber where the Roman woman would lay with Spartacus. The best pillows in brilliant crimsons and the deepest violets were piled high, sheets of the softest silk put on a bed that unlike any Aithne had ever seen before. The drapery was tied back with gilded cords that were no use at all for anything remotely practical. It was a place of luxury and fantasy, and a place that Aithne had no desire to spend more time than absolutely necessary.

As the end of the day approached, she was ordered to refill the wine in Domina's bathing chamber. The steam from the bath made the air heavy and humid and difficult to breathe; perfume stung her nostrils and she almost longed for the stench of the ludus. As soon as she entered with the wine, Lucretia's eyes were upon her.

"Aithne?"

She set the wine down and turned to face the mistress of the house, who was sitting the pool, water lapping around her breasts. Rather than casting her eyes downward, she met her domina's gaze unflinchingly.

"How did you fare with Spartacus last night? Was his cock of impressive size when engorged? How many times did he have you?"

She had not thought that the woman would question whether or not the deed had been done, and she had no prepared a proper lie. Instead of trying to make one up on the spot, she dropped her head in what she hoped would appear to be shame. If Domina believed she was ashamed, perhaps she would believe that the deed had been done. Unfortunately, her mistress did not take the bait.

"Huh? Speak!" she commanded.

"He did not have me, Domina," Aithne said quietly, forcing the words past her lips and hoping that her anger did not show overly much.

"He did not have you? He was unable to perform?"

"No. I should say that he would not have me."

"He would not have you? He did not desire you?" Lucretia asked, surprise in her voice. She had thought that perhaps Aithne's scars would appeal to the savage Thracian. If she had thought he were of more refined tastes, she would have sent Mira.

"He desired only sleep."

"You did not lay with him and you wait until now to tell me?"

"I thought it would displease you, Domina," she answered carefully. She had known that Lucretia would be displeased, and she imagined that an unpleasant experience. And if she could not stay in the House of Batiatus, she knew that she would be in a whorehouse, forced to lie with many men a night rather than just the one she was supposed to lie with now.

"Take off your dress," Lucretia ordered. Aithne dropped her dress, revealing her naked body once more. Lucretia rose from the water and crossed the pool, taking Aithne's breasts in her hands and squeezing them tight. She forced them down Aithne's body to her ass and squeezed again, surprised to find that her body was not a soft, womanly body. Finally, with little finesse, she forced slid her hand between Aithne's legs and forced her fingers inside. Aithne clenched her jaw tightly and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

"Tits, ass, and cunt all appear to be without disease or deformity, which tells me the fault is not in the flesh, but in the bitch."

"Yes, Domina." Aithne could not force herself to apologize, not when she had done nothing wrong.

"Return to his cell tonight, and I expect his cock in you or you'll find a sword in its place."

"Domina," she answered, not agreeing or disagreeing with the order. Before her mistress could say anything about the order, she slipped from the room and back towards the ludus. The walk seemed less frightening than her previous visit, and that in itself made her nervous. She did not want to fall into the trap of thinking that just because it was safe the first time it would be safe the second. Not when experience told her otherwise.

The guard unlocked the gate for her without a word; he had seen this pattern with many women who had come before her, and he would continue to see it after her. A slave would be sent to please the current champion, and they would fuck like wild rabbits until eventually he tired of her. It always left the women worn and exhausted, as if they had believed that being the chosen whore of a champion was a special achievement. They never lasted long after that. He was already calculating how long this one—this strange, scarred woman—would last.

She lost her way more than once before she finally found Spartacus's cell, and that made her anxious. It was yet another reminder that she did not know everything about the ludus, and that was a threat to her safety. Her heart was pounding, her breathing controlled only because she forced it to be so. If she could see herself, she would find a disheveled woman with perhaps the most miniscule hint of apprehension in her eyes.

Aithne arrived in Spartacus's cell to find that it did not matter. He was already asleep on the bed, lying underneath the woolen blanket. Even in his sleep, he did not look completely at rest; nor did he look happy. She had seen that look before, the look of a man who was exhausted beyond physical possibility, who was too tired to go without sleep but feared to do so because of the dreams that would haunt him. It was a dangerous state to be in, and a state that she would not want to wake any man from.

Lucretia's words rang loud and clear in her mind, and she knew that she had no choice. Picking up a small stone from the floor, she tossed it across the room where it fell upon the gladiator's chest. His eyes shot open immediately and he sat up, his body tense.

"If you value your life, never awaken a gladiator," he said quietly.

"I value it enough to do so from a distance."

"Return the way you came." She could hear the exhaustion in his voice and wanted to oblige him. Her sense of self-preservation prevented her from doing so.

"I find I am unable to do so."

"And what reason is there for that?" he asked.

"Domina sent me. She knows that I did not lie with you last night."

Guilt crossed his face and she saw him do a quick study of her person to discern any bruising or new marks upon her skin. He found none, but had to wonder what her punishment had been.

"Why do you refuse me?" she asked. There was no vanity or anger in her voice, but rather a sincere curiosity. She wanted to know why he continued to refuse her, and not for the sake of her own pride, but simply for the sake of knowing more. It was refreshing. "Am I not pleasing?"

"I have no desire to lie with a woman who has been commanded to do so."

"Is that not what you would do when you lie with the Roman woman? You only do so because you are commanded," she noted, raising an eyebrow.

"That is different."

"How so?"

"Batiatus did me a great service," he answered shortly.

He could tell from her expression that she was taken aback at the thought of him willingly being with the Roman woman, at willingly doing something for Batiatus. It was not in line with the picture she had created of Spartacus in her mind.

"You are his slave, are you not? What service could he have done for you?"

Spartacus was silent for a long time, studying his hands and the floor and the walls—anything but her—before he finally spoke. "My wife was taken from me, when the Romans enslaved us. Batiatus did his best to reunite us."

There was a profound sadness in his voice when he mentioned his wife, and she knew without asking that the attempt had not had the planned outcome. The sadness in his voice and the mention of a spouse caused a pang deep within her chest as she was once again reminded of the home that she was taken from.

"What happened?" she inquired, though she knew that doing so was not the best idea.

"Her caravan was attacked on the road. She died in my arms."

No wonder he was so profoundly sad; it was obvious to anyone—a blind man could have seen it—that he had loved his wife. She had been important to him, a part of him perhaps, and she had been torn away from him. He still grieved her. It seemed obvious now why he did not desire her.

She rose and walked to the door. "I am sorry for you pain. I know only a fraction of it, and that is sometimes too much to bear."

Without giving him time to ask what she meant or to question the grief that he saw reflected in her face, she stepped into the corridor. Upon hearing him call her name, she stopped. She turned to see him standing in the doorway.

"When you did not complete your task, did Domina punish you?"

"I have not been punished for my failure yet, no."

"Then perhaps you should stay," he said, extending his blanket to her. "On the floor."

She took the blanket and nodded. "You have my gratitude. Is there nothing I can do for the champion of Capua? The bringer of rain?"

He thought for a moment. "There is one desire I would have serviced. If you are able…"


	3. Making Bargains

**Author's note: Thank you so much for your feedback and reviews! I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update, but school and work and two tests a week don't leave much spare time for writing-not if I want to sleep, anyway. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter and please review!**

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><p>When she woke up, Aithne was still exhausted and her body let her know it. Her knuckles were raw and oozing from hours scrubbing the floor the night before. She could still see the Roman woman's blood caked under her fingernails, but in truth it bothered her very little. She in life before the ludus, she had seen blood and death, and the sight of the Roman woman's blood and brains splattered on the floor had not stirred her.<p>

Lucretia had noticed the way that Aithne had quietly cleaned up the mess without any sign of repulsion. Naevia, the most trusted slave of the Domina, had dropped to her knees and wretched, leaving her previous meal on the floor alongside the blood and gore. The poor girl's face was pale, and even after she had stopped heaving, she still looked ready to begin again at any moment. Aithne felt a pang of sympathy for the other slave, knowing that Naevia's upbringing had more than likely been far softer than her own.

"Domina, may I make a suggestion?" Aithne had asked quietly, her head bowed in proper submissive posture. It killed her to do it, but Naevia was obviously suffering seeing the gruesome sight.

"You may, if it is a wise one."

"Naevia appears unwell, and I know her nearness is of great comfort to you. If it would set her at ease, I am able to cleanse the room without her. When the sun rises, no one will know of what happened here, and you will be able to have Naevia at your side on the morrow."

Lucretia studied the slave standing before her; there were no signs of anxiety in her countenance. Her hands were clasped in front of her, though not overly tightly; she was not trembling, and did not look fragile in any way. She was a calm woman, prepared to do what she must. Lucretia smiled.

"You are certain it will be done by morning?" she finally asked.

"More than certain, Domina."

"Then, Naevia, you may go." Naevia nodded her thanks—both to her Domina and to her fellow slave—and slipped quietly away. "I will send on of our trusted men to move the body."

"If you but tell me where you would like it hidden, I am able to carry her, Domina. I would not wish to involve more people than absolutely necessary."

"You find none of this troubling?" Lucretia asked, her tone more demanding since Naevia was no longer present.

"It does not matter if it troubles me. It is a pressing matter that must be dealt with, and I am capable of handling the matter."

"Carry the body to the wine cellar of the villa. There is a large empty vase in the back corner. Then see that this mess is handled. If it is not, you will pay dearly."

"Yes, Domina," she whispered. Lucretia turned on her heel and left the room in a whirl of soft silks and blonde hair. Immediately, Aithne pulled off one of the dead woman's many layers and wrapped it around her head to stop the bleeding before hefting the body over her shoulder and carrying down to the wine cellar. The woman had weighed next to nothing and it was a simple feat to fit her into the large pot. She then grabbed a large tub of water and a pitcher of the cheapest wine and returned to the room. Using the soiled sheets from the bed, she began to mop up as much of the blood as she could. She tried to hold her dress up out of the blood, but it was an impossible feat.

It took her too long to get the blood up off the floor, and even once it was gone, she still found herself picking up skull fragments and teeth. She dropped them into a pile with the sheets to be disposed of later, and set to scrubbing at the tile. After a cursory wash with the water, most of the blood was gone—but the smell remained. The thick, coppery smell of blood was in the air and no amount of water seemed to wash it away.

The problem was that the blood had seeped into the spaces between the tiles and was holding in the smell. As carefully as she could, Aithne took the wine and poured it slowly across the tile, making sure that it dripped into the cracks. With the edge of an unsoiled pillowcase, she scrubbed the floor. Would the wine stain? Perhaps, though the tile was dark enough that no one would notice. More importantly, though, the wine would get out the smell. It was far better to have a room smell of alcohol than blood.

After going over the floor with the wine, she was it once more with the water to ensure that there was no film left on the floor. She had scrubbed, and she hard scrubbed hard—until her fingers bled. Only then was she satisfied and slunk away to get herself a new dress before climbing into bed.

And now she was pulling her tired body back out of bed, a mere three hours later. She could not be certain that she had the energy to make it through the day; she could only hope that in light of her services in the night, Domina would be more lenient on her. Aithne hope that was the case, for she still had the little matter of Spartacus's request to see to as well. When she was summoned to stand before her domina, she hoped she would be given the chance to take care of his request.

"You performed admirably, Aithne," Lucretia said as she stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the gladiators were sparring. Aithne followed her gaze to where Crixus was sparring with one of the new slaves that had been bought with her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Spartacus sparring with Varro, the blonde man repeatedly missing an important block to his flank.

"Thank you, domina."

"I know you understand the need for discretion in this matter, and I appreciate your silence. I must admit that I at first had doubts about you—you did not seem as though you would fit with our lifestyle—but you have shown me otherwise. When I am well pleased, you will be rewarded. Perhaps another night with the bringer of rain?" she asked.

Aithne thought back to her night spent on the cold stone floor of his cell; while it was hardly comfortable, she favored it over her slave quarters—if they could even be called that. But before she could speak to say otherwise, Lucretia took her silence as agreement.

"You shall have it then. Go to him tonight and enjoy yourself," Lucretia said, a sharp, sly smile on her face that Aithne found she did not like at all. But she knew she was in no position to argue and did not try to do so.

That night, she made her way to the Spartacus's cell once more. The guard stopped her once more, this time pressing her against the wall. When Spartacus had done it, she had felt his power, but did not feel threatened by it; now, she did feel threatened—not because he was more skilled than she, but because he was a guard. If he wanted something from her, she was not in a position to fight him for it—not without punishment.

"Domina sent me to see Spartacus," she said quietly, her voice far more level than she felt.

"I may require payment for your passage," he answered, his hands sliding around her hips. She put her hands on his chest and pushed with all her strength.

"You will do no such thing," she snapped, pushing past him to the gate. His displeasure was obvious in his eyes, but he let her through with no further fuss.

Spartacus sat in his cell, staring intently at the wall; before entering, she knocked lightly on the doorway to alert him to her presence.

"Yet again? Do you enjoy the sting of rejection?" Spartacus said, though his words were light-hearted, a small smile on his face.

"Domina sent me once more. She seems to be under the impression that I enjoy your company," Aithne answered lightly, moving to sit at the opposite end of the bed.

"And what makes her want to please you?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"She seeks to reward me. It was I that cleaned up after Illithyia."

He did not try to hide his surprise. "You?"

"Yes. And as a reward for my skill, she sent me to you. I find that the Romans believe most strongly that the pleasures of the flesh are the highest reward," she answered, amused.

"You do not?"

"I would not say that; I find that it is a pleasurable experience, but it is not the end all and be all of existence. However, to lie with someone who has no desire to lie with me, or to lie with someone I have no desire to lie with…there is no pleasure in that. Since I was taken from home, I have seen men forcing themselves on women—and each other—simply because they can, and that is for the power, not the pleasure."

Her voice was dull and quiet when she spoke, and a flash of anger tore through him as he realized that she was speaking from her own experiences. He should not be surprised—he was not surprised, not truly—that it had happened, but he did not expect her to speak of it so openly. Nor did he expect her to seem so casual about it, like it was something that happened every day.

"You speak of it…many would not speak of it at all," he muttered, his voice low.

"Understandably so. I find it an unpleasant topic. Let us speak of something else." She was trying to change the subject, he knew, but he let her do it anyway. "I have not yet been able to seek out your friend's wife. I fear that Domina will not allow me to leave the ludus. Is there…is there someone who could offer me aid?"

Spartacus thought for a moment. "There is, though I would be hesitant to trust him. Ashur has Batiatus's ear. If he can speak for you, Batiatus will listen."

"Then I will seek him out," she said.

"You would go to much trouble for the favor I asked of you. Why?"

She sighed. "When I am here—in this cell, with you—I do not feel like one who is enslaved. I know that I am, that the weight of my bondage is ever upon me…except when I am here. And," she added more lightly, "this floor is a sight more comfortable than my own bed."

"I find that neither would bring much comfort."

"I have slept on worse."

His brows raised in surprise. "Have you?"

"When the occasion calls for it. Now, I find myself weary for I did not have much rest last night. I shall retire to your floor and leave you to your sleep."

Spartacus stared at her as she slept, puzzled. He could understand wanting to be away from the quarters where the other slaves slept, but he could not understand the feeling of freedom she gained from sleeping in his cell—a glorified cage. He could not understand how she passingly spoke of the brutal things that had been done to her with such a casual air. A bit of a puzzle, she was, though he was not certain he had the energy to put the pieces together.

In the morning, she rose quietly and slipped out of the cell without saying anything to the gladiator. He was awake, and she was well aware, but neither said anything to the other. It was better just to go their separate ways; if things continued as they had been, it would not be long before they saw one another once more.

After completing her morning duties, Aithne sought out Ashur—the one who could help her with Spartacus's request. He was not difficult to find, and she knew immediately that she was going to regret coming to him; that knowledge did not stop her, however.

"Ashur?" she asked. He turned and a smile spread across his lips, which was answer enough for her. "I am Aithne. I have been told that you are the one to speak to if I have need of something."

"That I am. And what does the lady have need of?"

She grinned bitterly. "Not the title of lady, that is for certain. I have a task to do that requires me to be out of the ludus, in the streets of Capua. I dare not ask Domina, for I do not believe that she would grant the request. But, if a trusted servant were to make the suggestion that he required assistance…"

"They would allow you to leave the ludus with me as your escort. How clever. There is one small flaw in this plan," he said. She stared at him expectantly. "When you run off the in market, it is I that will be punished for it."

"I do not intend to run. I am looking for someone."

"If you are searching for lost loves from your homeland—"

She scoffed. "I am not so sentimental. Spartacus requires it."

Ashur's eyes widened in surprise. "You do this for Spartacus?"

"I do."

"Well…I suppose I may be able to help…" He trailed off, waiting for her to realize that there were stipulations attached to his assistance.

"What do you require in return? Is the favor of Spartacus not enough?" she finally asked, not liking where the conversation was headed.

"Spartacus is ultimately naught but a slave. While his favor would be quite appreciated and useful, I am also a man of simple tastes." His eyes traveled up over her body. Her dress, though more substantial than some that the others wore, still left very little to the imagination.

"Speak plainly and tell me your desire," she snapped, tiring of his game, though she was certain that she already knew where it was going.

"It has been quite some time since I had a woman—"

"And it will continue to be longer. I will not lie with you."

He shrugged. "Then I suppose you do not desire to complete Spartacus's task."

Aithne clenched her teeth tightly, frustrated and exhausted. Every impulse in her was screaming for her to hit Ashur, to hit him and run as fast as she was able. But Aithne was nothing if not a woman of discipline and so she fought the impulses and instead stayed where she was, considering the man before her. If she was to get what she wanted, this was the only way she would be able to do so. Despite redeeming herself somewhat in Lucretia's eyes, she would never be trusted to leave the ludus unescorted. She would always require an escort and Ashur was the most trusted one. It left her little choice.

"Tomorrow, we go to the streets so that I may look," she answered finally. He stepped closer to her, his hands tightening on her hips.

"We go tomorrow," he replied, pulling her deeper into the shadows.

His hands slipped up her sides to the knot behind her neck that was holding the dress up. With a few deft flicks of his fingers, the knot was sliding undone. Aithne did not catch it or make any attempt to cover her body, letting him take in the scars that criss-crossed across her skin. If it repulsed him, he gave away no such idea.

Ashur took her hands and guided them to the knots of his clothing; unlike him, she had little experience getting men out of Roman dress, and she struggled for a long time to get the knots undone. When he was finally free of his clothing, he pushed her into the wall. The rough stone scraped at her back and she tried to think more about the stone than about Ashur.

Then realization came to her, and she seized the idea. Suddenly full of zeal for her task, she pushed away from the wall and turned the tables on Ashur, pushing him against the rough stone. He gasped in surprise, but did not seem displeased, so she continued in that vein. She was rough with him, biting his lip and clawing at him with her short, stubby nails. Each gasp was like music to her hears.

Running her hands over his belly—he felt soft, she though, not hard like the gladiators—she heard him gasp and felt his response against her thigh. When she nipped lightly at one place on his neck, he yelped in pleasure and so she did it again. And again. And once more.

By the time she took him into her hand, he was lost in a haze of pleasure and lust. He was bucking into her hand, gasping and writhing against the wall like a wanton whore. Some women, she heard, took immense pleasure in knowing that they were responsible for a man's reaction when he was in a state such as this—Aithne did not. It was a necessity and nothing more. With a few more strokes and a one or two well placed bites, he was done, moaning and releasing his seed all over his own belly.

Aithne wiped her hands on his robe before handing it back to him. "I expect to be in the market tomorrow," she told him perfunctorily as she redressed.

Lost in his haze of pleasure, he simply nodded and watched her tie her dress back on. It was only after she was gone that he realized that he had not gotten what he wanted, which was an honest-to-the-gods romp. He had wanted her flat on her back while he was above her, rutting into her for all he was worth. Instead, he got a clandestine play of hands in a shadowy corner that had lasted all of a few moments.

She was good, he had to admit. She was very good.


	4. Thanks

**So, here's another chapter. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. I hope you're still enjoying the story, and whether you are or not, be sure to let me know so that I can fix it! Sorry for the delay, and enjoy!**

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><p>When the morning came, Aithne rose from her hard bed and began to go about her tasks, waiting for Ashur to hold up his end of the bargain. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing dirt and dust off the dark tiled floor in the heat of the midday before a guard was sent to fetch her.<p>

"Dominus has requires your presence," the guard—the same one that had pressed against her when she paid her visit previous visit to Spartacus—said, his voice serious. It was not a request, and as uncomfortable as she was with following the guard, she was certain that she had no other choice if she wanted to see the outside of the ludus. Knowing that she had no other options, she followed him with her head bowed. If she wanted to be trusted to make a trip to the market on future occasions, she would need to convince Dominus that she was a well-trained slave.

Batiatus was sitting in the baths, cleansing himself in preparation for the impending games that were to take place in the later hours of the day. She wondered if perhaps he intentionally called her to speak to him when he was in the bath in an attempt to make her uncomfortable. Or maybe it was simply the Roman way. She could not be sure and she had no desire to find out in further detail.

"Ashur must go to the market on an errand; he tells me that he will require another to complete the task. I understand that you may be of assistance," Batiatus said from where he was sitting in the bath. "I would have no trouble from you, is that clear?"

She stared down at her toes. "Yes, Dominus. Whatever you require."

Aithne was unable to see his expression, but she could hear the excitement in his voice at her words. She could only make suppositions as to why he was pleased, but she had no desire to truly understand why; she only knew that it was good for her in this moment.

"There are dangerous people in the market who hide behind the guise of gentility. Stay close to Ashur and he will see that you are unharmed. If you stray from his side, mark my words, harm will come to you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dominus."

Ashur grinned at her, the wolfish grin that brought back memories of the men who had brought her to this place. She kept her back ramrod straight, her eyes focused on the floor just in front of her feet so that she would not have to see Ashur's face, and think about how her actions would come back to haunt her. Instead, she kept her thoughts on her mission of finding Varro's wife.

As soon as they were outside the walls of the ludus, Ashur turned to face her. "Now, who are we seeking?"

"I seek Varro's wife, Aurelia."

"You are seeking Varro's wife as a favor for Sartacus?" Ashur asked, confusion spreading across his face.

"Friendship has few bounds, apparently. Do you know where they reside?"

"I have been to their dwelling; the only thing to be found was blood on the floor."

"Well, we have our place to start."

He led her through the city to a small hovel at the outer edges of the city. Aithne pushed open the door and slipped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the stench inside. The home had clearly not been inhabited in days; there was a puddle of dried blood on the floor, and a trail of it out the back of the house. She followed it out into the road, but lost the trail all the dust of the street.

Ashur followed her, confusion still written all over his face as he struggled to find an explanation for what she was doing. She quietly returned to the house and continued to look around. She looked around the beds—one small bed pushed into a corner and another larger on, one meant to be shared, in the other corner. There were no other dresses anywhere in the home, or clothes for a small boy. In the search she found, something else instead.

"I think it was not Aurelia's that was spilled on this floor. It belonged to a man," she said, bitter amusement in her voice.

"How can you be certain?" Ashur asked.

She held up the dried, shriveled remnants of what was once a seemingly functional penis. "I do not know a man who would part willingly with his own cock, do you?"

Ashur only shivered and continued searching the house. He found nothing of consequence, it was not for lack of thoroughness. Aithne continued searching as well, though she moved more swiftly than Ashur, not taking care with the things that she touched. After searching through a food basket and finding nothing, she abruptly stopped.

"Is there anyone home in the next house?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

She pushed open the front door and strode to the next house over without saying another word to Ashur. She quietly knocked on the door, and a moment later an older woman opened it. The woman had dark, leathery skin and deep wrinkles in her face, but they were the lines that came from laughter. Lines that Aithne was quite certain she would never see on her own face.

"Is there something I can do for you?" the woman asked.

"I come from the house of Batiatus, seeking Aurelia, Varro's wife. I cannot find her, and I thought perhaps you may know."

The woman sighed and studied Aithne carefully, looking her over from head to foot. She had seen some of the slaves from Batiatus's house; she knew what they wore. She eyed Ashur with the same critical eye that she had for Aithne. Finally, she nodded at Aithne.

"You may come in. If he is your escort, he should wait out of doors. My husband is not home," she said. Aithne nodded politely and followed the woman inside, leaving a baffled Ashur standing in the street by the door.

"Why are you looking for Aurelia?"

"I was sent as a favor," Aithne answered, not clarifying who sent her. "Varro wonders after her health."

"He did not seem so concerned when she last visited. Aurelia was heartbroken upon her return home."

"I know not what transpired between them, only that he worries about her now. I looked into her home and found blood. Now I am concerned for her safety."

"Your concern is unwarranted. There was a man who had been…he had come around to take advantage of her in her husband's absence. When he left…he will not take advantage of her again."

"She was unharmed when last I saw her. Aurelia was afraid of consequences. I encouraged her to take refuge with her brother in the hills."

"She is in the hills with her brother? Can you give me his name?"

"Marcus Telinus, she said."

Aithne bowed her head and quietly thanked the woman before departing. Ashur seemed surprised when she walked out the front door, as though he had been expecting her to flee out the back while he waited. She quickly told him the name of Aurelia's brother and their destination. Taking her by the hand, he began pulling her in the proper direction.

"Let go of my hand," she said quietly.

"If you wish to get to the hills, you will not complain any further."

Though she longed to pull her hand from Ashur's, she chose instead not to fight that battle. She let him lead her through the streets and into the hills, inquiring after Marcus Telinus along the way. The sun was beating down on her fair skin, but she walked on, trying not to think too much about Ashur's fingers intertwined with hers. When they finally found the house, he let her go and she knocked on the door of a stranger for the second time in the day.

A young man answered the door, his eyes narrowing in distrust when he saw two strangers standing on his doorstep. Before he could close the door in their faces, Ashur caught it and held it open, which did nothing to put the man at ease.

"We mean no harm to anyone," Aithne said quickly before a struggle could ensue. "I am from the house of Batiatus, seeking Aurelia. I was told that we could find her here."

The man's face paled at the mention of the house of Batiatus, but he stopped fighting and let them inside the house. It was not much better than the hovel that Aurelia lived in, but at least it was neat and clean.

"Do you bring news of Varro's death?" the man asked with no ado.

"No. Varro wishes to see his wife, and I was sent to seek her out," Aithne explained. The man sighed in relief before going to fetch his sister. He returned with a young, wide-eyed woman who was heavy with child. Aithne said nothing about the woman's condition.

"I am Aithne from the house of Batiatus. Your husband wishes to see you. He is concerned for you safety."

Aurelia stared at her for a long moment, as if not comprehending what she had heard. When she finally spoke, she sounded a distant, as though not comprehending what she was saying.

"Varro wishes to see me? He did not wish it so when I last visited."

"He has had a change of heart. After…Ashur went to your home and found blood, and Varro was doubly determined to see that you were safe. If you wish to see him, I can escort you—"

"Yes, please." Aurelia cut her off, not letting her finish her offer. The woman took a few moments to gather herself together and to adjust her dress, and then they were headed back to the ludus. Though she was in the family way, Aurelia did not complain about the walk. Instead, she quietly followed Ashur and Aithne, apparently eager to see her husband. Aithne could sense the other woman's excitement growing as they approached the ludus.

Ashur departed into the villa, leaving the two women alone to enter the ludus. The guard quickly unlocked the gate and they slipped inside, walking to where the men were eating. In the corner, Varro and Spartacus sat separate from the other men, talking quietly as they ate. Spartacus saw them enter and nodded in their direction, drawing Varro's attention to where they stood. Upon seeing his wife, a smile slowly spread across the blonde man's face and he was across the room before Aurelia could make a move to go to him. They embraced fiercely, clinging to one another with abandon. Aithne slipped to the corner to speak with Spartacus while the couple stepped away for a moment of privacy.

"You found her," he commented quietly.

"Did I not tell you that I would? I repay my debts."

"You owed me nothing, truly."

"The comfort of a night's sleep is truly something to be thankful for," she replied. "You have been kind—more often than not, anyhow—and I shall forget it."

She slipped away before he could answer, knowing that her presence in the villa would be missed. Thankfully, Ashur had duties elsewhere and was not available to pester her as she went about the rest of her duties. She served food for Batiatus as he played at being a military man on a board game with Ashur.

"Aithne, more wine," Batiatus ordered, noting his cup was empty. As she walked to the storeroom under the stairs, she passed Spartacus and Crixus being escorted into the villa. Neither man seemed particularly happy to be in the other's presence.

The storeroom was cool in the evening, and she took a moment to appreciate the feel of the cool air on her skin. She had no way of seeing herself, but she was certain that her skin was once again burned red; she could feel the heat of it when she touched her shoulders and only hoped that the stinging pain would subside.

She heard footsteps quickly approaching and grabbed a jar of wine, not wishing to be caught taking a moment for herself. Leaving the storeroom, she began to make her way back to Batiatus's chamber, where he was now engaged in his game of strategy with Spartacus. After refilling her master's cup, she took her place against the wall and watched the two men play, noting that Spartacus was by far the better strategist. She bit back a smile at seeing that, though she scolded herself for being the slightest be surprised. She should know by now that Spartacus was a man of secrecy.

As the hour grew later, Batiatus dismissed her to her quarters to sleep. She did not wait for him to make a second offer and slipped away as Lucretia was entering the room. Her sandals clicked on the hard tile floors as she walked quickly, desperate to get to her bed—despite how uncomfortable it would be—and fall asleep. She was nearly there when an arm grabbed her wrist and pushed her into the wall. It was the guard that had made a pass at her during her previous visit to Spartacus.

"I suggest that you give me back what is mine right this very moment," he hissed, pushing her harder against the stone.

"I know not what you speak of," she answered, genuinely confused. Internally, she was cursing herself for being caught off guard. She was getting soft, losing the wariness that she had possessed when she originally came to the ludus. In her homeland, she never would have allowed someone to catch her unawares.

"You know precisely what I speak of. The key. After you came to see Spartacus, it has been missing. I do not believe it to be a coincidence."

"I think that perhaps you should be more careful with the property dominus entrusts you with. I have no key—"

He cut her off when he wrapped a hand around her throat. She grabbed his hand and pressed on the meaty muscle between his thumb and forefinger. Immediately, he released her throat, and she slipped out of his grasp. Instead of leaving him, she pushed his face against the wall, just hard enough to hurt, before pushing him into the sconce on the wall. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, and the guard screamed. When she heard footsteps approach, she released him, realizing too late that this was an offense that would get her beaten.

It was not the guards that approached, but Spartacus unaccompanied. He saw the burn marks on the guard and the bruises on Aithne's neck. Realizing what must have happened, he grabbed the man by the wrist and pinned him to the wall once more. He only let go when guards arrived to pull him off, and Batiatus arrived to scream at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" the master of the house roared.

"He overstepped his bounds with Aithne. He put his hands on her, and she will have bruises on her neck."

He did not reveal that it was she who had given the guard the burns or that it was she who had somehow overpowered him. He spoke his words, taking the blame for her actions, and she wondered how she would repay him. If she had been flogged—which she surely would have been for the offense—it may have killed her, depending on the number of lashes. He had saved her life.

"Thank you," she mouthed to him as she walked away. He just stared after her, no trace of a smile on his face.


	5. Wicked Games

**I know, I'm a terrible person for keeping you waiting. I apologize. Please forgive me and let me know what you think. Reviews are awesome and very helpful in improving my writing. **

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><p>There was too much work to be done, and too little time in which to get it done. Aithne and the other house slaves had been awake since long before dawn preparing for the toga virilis of Numerius, son of Calavius. Excitement filled the house, and the exhibition between Crixus and Spartacus only fueled the energy. Aithne had asked Naevia for an explanation, but the question only seemed to agitate her. It was only through the gossip from the other slaves that she learned why everyone seemed to be awaiting this fight with abated breath.<p>

"Crixus was the Undefeated Gaul until Spartacus defeated Theokoles. Crixus was in the arena, but it was Spartacus who killed him," one of the other slaves explained. "Crixus will be eager to prove himself, even if it is simply an exhibition match."

Aithne nodded, continuing with her given task. They were replacing all of the wall hangings and curtains with the finest silks in the deepest, boldest colors—all to impress the magistrate. The floors had been scrubbed and an area in the main hall had been cleared to serve as the sparring area. The villa was warmer than usual; the slaves had been in the kitchen since well before dawn, preparing the dishes to be served and the heat had radiated through the rest of the villa.

Sweat trickled down her body as she changed the window dressings on the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the gladiators were sparring. The sun was beaming down on all of them, making the air dry and dusty once again. When she looked over the edge of the balcony, she could see Spartacus giving the boy—who was soon to be a man—a lesson in swordplay. It took great restraint for her to bite back her laughter at the thought of the boy wielding a sword. Gladiators aside, she remembered warriors that carried weapons of similar size to the lad.

"Aithne!" Lucretia's voice wasn't shrill as it could be on occasion, but the slave woman jumped just the same. Of course, the moment she flinched, Aithne hated herself for it. She had promised herself that she wouldn't be cowed into submission by Lucretia and there she was cringing at the sound of her voice. She vowed to change that, and made her way towards where Lucretia was waiting.

Lucretia was studying the vibrantly colored dresses that made up her wardrobe, studying each one intently as if she was unsure of which one to choose. Her hair was twisted and flattened on top of her head, and her red wig was waiting to be worn.

"Yes, Domina?"

"Soon Numerius will come in from his lesson with the gladiators. I want a bath drawn and ready for him when he comes in. Understood?"

"Yes, Domina."

Aithne nodded subserviently and slipped away to draw a bath for the young man. She slipped quietly down to the kitchen, barely noticed in the flurry of activity going on. In the kitchens, she found some of the others already heating the water; vase by vase, they carried it to the bathing chamber, ensuring that the young man would have clean, warm water for his bath.

As she was putting in the last of the water, Numerius strode in, followed by his attendants. Dust and grime from the courtyard clung to his thin, boy's form. Aithne remembered her home with boys his age wielding swords—real swords in real battles—and was disgusted. This boy was going to grow older and follow in his father's footsteps, going into their governing body where he did nothing but talk. They became men who talked, not men of action. What was the purpose of discussion if it never resulted in action?

She turned to quietly slip away when she heard the boy gasp. Her thoughts immediately turned to danger and she looked back, wondering what could possibly have happened in that split second. Instead of seeing danger, she saw Ilithyia standing at the end of the bathing pool, her intent written all over her face.

Immediately, Aithne tucked herself safely out of sight. Knowledge was power; she had always known the fact and its importance seemed to have multiplied tenfold since he became a slave. Knowledge was all that a slave had to bargain with—and that was only when exchanged with the proper person. Still, grown women did not make advances on boys who were barely men without some higher cause; perhaps she could discern Ilithyia's purpose.

"Clean?" Ilithyia's voice was strong and purposeful, though Aithne doubted that the poor boy could discern it. "Or do you yet require a hard scrubbing?"

The innuendo was not lost on Aithne, though she remained quiet. It was not so shocking—not after the comments she had heard on her journey to Capua from her homeland.

"No, I am—I am—" Numerius stumbled over his words, unable to finish the sentence for shock of having a woman join him in his bath. Ilithyia laughed at his discomfort.

"Yes, you are. Nothing more sensual than a warm bath," Ilithyia said, her voice smooth as the softest silk. Aithne did not dare move from her hiding place to look, but she could hear movement in the water and doubted that it was a boy. In his shock, he was more likely frozen in place.

"Mmm…the water caressing your skin…Your eyes seem rather fixed." From the tone of Ilithyia's voice, Aithne was hardly surprised that Numerius would be staring at her. She was certain that is exactly what the other woman had intended.

"Apologies," Numerius said, clearly embarrassed.

"None required. This is your night, Numerius. One that occurs but once in a man's lifetime."

"I am filled with much excitement." Numerius's incidental—and most likely accidental—use of innuendo caught Aithne off guard. It took all her self-control and discipline—of which she had in large supply—to stop herself from making a sound.

"Of course you are. Your life unfolds before you; many glories, many honors, many pleasures. The choices you make tonight will ripple through time, altering fates and destinies. So much rests in your hands. And I would see them properly filled."

She really was going to do it, Aithne realized. Ilithyia really was going to have sex with the boy. Until that moment, she had truly believed that it was all about catering to him, about making the boy feel powerful and important. Now, she was certain that whatever it was that Ilithyia wanted, it must be of utmost importance to the other woman or she would not be willing to go to such lengths. The more important it was to Ilithyia, the more Aithne wanted to know about it, no matter how much the methods of achieving the act appalled her.

She could hear the rustling of fabric and the sound of it hitting the tile floor. There was the sound of someone moving in the water—Ilithyia, probably. She must have been disrobing before stepping into the bathing pool. The sounds grew louder as Ilithyia moved towards Numerius. The boy gasped, and Aithne could only imagine why.

"You will follow on the path of your father before you," Ilithyia murmured. "You will hold men's lives in these hands; this very night you could have power over life and death itself."

There was a grunt of disappointment from Numerius before he gasped, "I do not understand what you mean."

"Your exhibition match tonight—"

"Crixus and Spartacus are to fight, but there will be no killing," the boy said.

"With Crixus fighting, certainly not. He is past his prime and Spartacus will easily best him. It would be hardly any battle at all, and certainly not fitting for a man that will do such feats as you. Varro has much promise, though."

"Varro?" When Numerius speaks, the word is more of a gasp than an actual question. A feeling of dread settled in Aithne's stomach as she recognized where the conversation was going. Varro, the closest companion and confidante of Spartacus.

"They would put on a showing worthy of your status, and when it is finished…you will have power over their lives. How many men would be able to say that on the night they became a man, they also knew the power of death?" Ilithyia purred, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water against the side of the bathtub. There was the wet smacking sound of skin-on-skin,

"Th-the p-power of death…"

"Show them what a man you are. If you are man enough to order his death on the night of your toga virilis, imagine what you will do with the rest of your life…"

Anything else that Ilithyia would have said was lost amidst Numerius's low groans of pleasure and Ilithyia's obviously false louder cries. Her face a mask of neutrality slid over Aithne's face as she turned and quickly walked away before anyone else could approach and notice that she had been listening.

With her head down in a subservient posture, she began to walk swiftly towards the ludus. Before she could get there, Naevia stepped into her path.

"Aithne, Domina requires your presence."

"Naevia, now is not the time. I need just a few moments—"

"There is no time. Domina is anxious for the ceremony and it is not best to keep her waiting. She will be unkind if you do not come now," Naevia said quietly, her voice urgent.

"I suppose she will have to be unkind to me, then. There are things more important than this ceremony," Aithne replied as she turned on her heel and walked away.

In her haste to reach the ludus, she did not mind her posture. She walked with long, strong steps and her head held high, her confidence more like that of a champion gladiator than that of an enslaved woman. When she reached the ludus, the guard stepped into her way. His face had not healed from the burns she had inflicted, but was instead an angry red color and covered in blisters.

"This is not your place, slave," he told her, his voice authoritative.

Aithne smiled bitterly. "Indeed. That is more true than you know. But now is not the time for wordplay. Allow me to pass."

"I believe that your domina has need of you. Perhaps that is where you should be going."

"Your concern is misplaced. Let me pass," Aithne answered quietly, her voice dangerous.

Instead of moving and allowing her to pass, the guard grabbed her around the waist and threw her over his shoulder. She kicked and hit, but the only place that her fists or feet could come in contact with were covered by his armor. He carried her swiftly through the villa and into Lucretia's chamber before Aithne finally found a weakness: his ear. She grabbed and pulled swiftly, separating the lower half of his ear from the side of his head. Blood flowed down the side of his neck and onto his armor.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucretia demanded, clearly affronted.

"She was trying to get into the ludus when you had need of her."

"Thank you for delivering her to me. See yourself back to your post," Lucretia ordered, staring at the blood on Aithne's dress and hands. The guard nodded and saw himself out. Lucretia crossed the room in three strides and struck Aithne across the face.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Our home will soon be full of people and you are trying to get into the ludus to have one more fuck with Spartacus? It is not a death match he goes to, but an exhibition. You would only damage his concentration."

Aithne knew that she should bite her tongue and wait for her moment to tell Spartacus later what was going on, but she could not guarantee she would be given the chance. "Domina—"

Lucretia cut her off once again with another slap to the face. Aithne did not so much as blink or move her hand; she stood stock still, her face an unreadable mask. When she finally spoke, she was quiet and emotionless.

"What do you require of me, domina?"

"You are to be present during the exhibition tonight. Bathe yourself quickly; a new dress is waiting on your cot in the slave quarters. It should cover the worst of your unseemly scars."

"Yes, domina," Aithne replied neutrally.

"This event must go as planned. If you do so much a breathe in a way that I dislike, I will have you dragged into the courtyard and flogged. Is that something that you simple-minded fool can understand?"

"Yes, domina."

"Then go!"

Aithne nodded and quietly slipped from the room, heading back down to the ludus. As reached the stairs, she could see the guard back in his place and knew that she was never going to be able to pass. She tried the back stairs to the ludus, but found that they, too, were guarded. All balconies or routes to get out of the villa were blocked. Her only hope would be to reach him during the evening before his match.

After she bathed and pulled on the dress, she was given orders to go report to the kitchens, where she began carrying out the food and arranging it on tables. Wine was also in plentiful supply. As the guests began to show up, she was relegated to standing quietly beside one of the tables to fetch wine or more food as it ran out.

When the gladiators arrived for entertainment, there was a gasp from the revelers. They all froze to watch the processional of nearly naked men with sleek, smooth muscles. From beside the table, Aithne watched them closely, noting the carefully neutral look on Spartacus's face. It was an expression that she knew well. She looked around, but Lucretia was standing too close for her to move. Finally, one of the vases of wine needed to be replaced and she quickly slipped away.

On her way back up, she walked quietly behind the line of gladiators. She stopped directly behind Spartacus. "Ilithyia spoke to the boy. He is going to make you fight Varro to the death."

"She is a cat absent claws," Spartacus replied.

"Do not be so sure. She was rather…persuasive with the boy. You must take utmost caution."

He nodded, as though taking her words into consideration, though she knew that he was not. It was a look she had seen on many a man's face when he was pretending to be listening to his wife. It was a look that got men killed in battle when they would not listen to a female scout. She shook her head angrily.

"Gratitude for last night," Aithne said, though it was clear in her voice that she was still anxious about the impending match.

"The man overstepped. You merely made correction. Batiatus hardly would have believed that a woman could inflict such damage."

"Still, I thank you."

"It is unnecessary. I would have done the same for any woman." His voice was short and clipped, clearly wishing for an end to the conversation.

She stared him in the eye and shook her head. "You are an ass."

Having done all she could, she returned to her place by the wine table, listening to various bits of conversation. Women gossiped about Licinia's disappearance; men talked about political matters; the boys were staging their own battles in the corner.

When Batiatus stepped up to make his speech, Aithne could not find it in herself to listen to his speech. She was too busy staring at Varro and Spartacus and wishing that they would listen. Hope burned within her that Varro would drop to his knees in a coughing fit, but no such thing ever came. Instead, Batiatus's speech continued on, the gladiators staring levelly ahead.

"A contest between the present and the past. Spartacus, champion of Capua, step forward. Crixus, former champion, ste—"

Numerius interrupted Batiatus, his voice confident and firm. "Wait. I fear Crixus has seen his best days passed. I would have Varro fight in his place."

Silence fell over the room and Aithne could not take her eyes off of Spartacus. He stared at her, his jaw clenched tight. Varro did not move.

"You are the editor, young master," Batiatus said, acquiescing. "Your will, our hands. Varro, step forward."

Varro stepped forward, both of them staring at Aithne. She tried to keep her face blank, but knew that she was failing miserably. She only hoped that no one of importance noticed. She could see them smiling at one another, the bond of brotherhood written all over their faces. Obviously, they did not believe what she had told them. She only hoped that, for once in her life, she was wrong.

"Begin!"

On Numerius's words, they began to battle, smiles on their faces as their swords clashed. They slashed and stabbed and blocked with their shields, moving too quickly for the untrained eye to really focus on what they were doing. It was different from the way that her people fought, Aithne noticed with interest. Perhaps if both the Thracian and Varro survived the fight, she would inquire.

Blood splattered the floor as Varro got in a glancing slice. Both of them smiled again, boyish smiles. Varro rushed past Spartacus as his blow missed, and the other gladiator caught him across the back, sending Varro to his knees. Once he was down, he barely got off his feet again before Spartacus had him back down, sword held to his neck.

"His flank," Aithne whispered, and could see them saying the same thing.

Applause filled the room as Batiatus spoke again. "Spartacus, still the champion of Capua. And Varro—a formidable opponent—one to watch closely in the arena. Come, Numerius, pass judgement on our fallen warrior."

The boy raised his arm, his thumb held sideways as he thought. With a slow, deliberate look to Ilithyia, he turned his thumb downwards.

The reaction was intense and immediate. Ladies gasped, in horror or delight—perhaps it was a bit of both. The smiles faded from Varro and Spartacus's faces as they looked to Batiatus for instruction. If the gladiators had been able to, they would have plead for his life.

"Apologies, Magistrate, this was agreed this was an exhibition only, not a fight to the death." Batiatus tried to reason with the politician, but he was having none of it.

"Numerius has made his decision. I will reimburse you the price of the man."

Aithne gasped, horrified. Despite the fact that she had known it was coming, that she had known and seen death before, she was still appalled at the callousness of the man. Reimbursement for a person's life. On the floor, Varro and Spartacus looked equally confused, their faces pleading for mercy.

"Procede," Batiatus announced. Aithne clenched her jaw tightly to keep from moving, her attention focused on Spartacus, who had not moved since the order was given.

"Do we have a problem, Batiatus?" Calavius asked.

"I said proceed." This time Batiatus was cold. When Spartacus still refused to move, the dominus nodded to the guards, all of whom grabbed their swords and began to move towards the gladiators. Aithne's heart began racing as she looked around for any sort of weapon that might be of use. A knife was lying on the table, but it was too dull to be of any real use.

Her eyes were drawn back to the floor. Neither gladiator had moved, but Varro was saying something to Spartacus, his expression pleading. Forgetting her post, Aithne moved closer to hear.

"…They will kill us both. They will kill us both," Varro said quietly.

"There is always a choice," Spartacus answered.

Before anyone could say another word, Varro reached up and grabbed the sword, pulling it downwards and pushing it into his own flesh. Blood splattered as the sword tore through flesh and muscle; more flowed past Varro's lips as he said something more to his friend. Finally, Spartacus pushed the sword deeper, finishing his opponent and friend.

In a daze, Spartacus's arm was raised above his head, though he was obviously not thinking of anything but his dead friend on the floor. The guards led him away, the remnants of tears still on his cheeks. Only after he left did Aithne realize that there were tears on her face, also.

"Wipe the tears from your face," Lucretia hissed as she passed. "Spartacus will need tending. See that he forgets this…misfortune."

Aithne did not even manage a polite response—or any response at all. She walked quickly—too quickly—from the villa and down to the ludus. The way to Spartacus's cell was now familiar, and even if she hadn't known the way, the agonized sounds would have been clue enough.

When she pushed open the door, she found him on his knees, cradling his bloody hands to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks. Immediately, she dropped to her knees beside him, running her hands through his hair comfortingly. He slid his arms around her a burrowed in close to her, his head buried in her shoulder. All she could do was sit there and hold him as he slowly cried himself out.

"I killed him. I killed my only friend," he finally whispered, his voice hoarse.

"It will get better," she replied soothingly. "It will."

He studied her face with wide eyes, his arms still wrapped around her. "How can you be certain?"

Tears spilled over from her own eyes as she heard the vulnerability in his voice. Vulnerability that no one else would get to see.

"Because I killed my husband."


End file.
